


luck of the draw

by ninemoons42



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode V: Empire Strikes Back
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Butterfly Effect, Charity Auctions, Fandom Hates Trump, Fandom Trumps Hate, Gen, Lando plays his game hard but he's got an odd good heart, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 02:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9857063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: If Lando Calrissian makes the choice to save Team Millennium Falcon from Darth Vader, this is how it would have started.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rexluscus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus/gifts).



A quiet chime at the edge of his hearing, at the edge of his mind.

He blinks, and he doesn’t start, not when everything that surrounds him is familiar, and only sort of maybe his. Specifically, he is not the only owner. Every being in this place holds a share, and not just of the business -- not just of the machines that harvest and refine and package the Tibanna gas that saturates the layers upon layers of atmosphere surrounding this planet -- this place called Bespin. Every being in this place holds a share in the ownership of the fine carpet beneath his feet, and the expansive desk just within arm’s-reach, and the plush chairs grouped into discrete islands. Every being in this place holds a share in the ownership of the winding corridors and the simply furnished but comfortable living spaces. Every being in this place holds a share in the ownership of the mechanisms and systems keeping this very place up and running.

Even the bottles and flasks in the temperature-controlled cabinet nestled between the two massive viewports are collectively owned. He’d gladly surrendered his tiny little collection of rare drinks to this place, this place that should have been his life’s work, his key to respectability and the easy-to-understand pretension to a title.

The very idea of Cloud City itself, and the idea of placing its ownership into the collective hands of the beings that lived and worked within it: these ideas have been around for a long time, but this is the first time that Lando has tried his hand at them, and he thinks he might perhaps be forgiven his pride in their fruits. And, he hopes, he might be forgiven for investing so many of his own hopes and dreams within these walls, within these floors. It’s a hope that he wants to own together with all of the beings who live and work here.

Today, however, there are things in this place to whom neither he nor the others resident and working in and around Cloud City can lay claim. There are newcomers over whom they have no actual jurisdiction: there are, in short, intruders.

Intruders who wear the armor and ranks of the Galactic Empire.

Calm. He reaches for his calm. The same calm that has, in his life, allowed him to bluff his way towards larger and larger prizes -- the largest of which, so far, has been this very place.

He keeps his breathing even and steady. Breathe in, one two three -- and exhale, four five six seven. Again: inhale, hold; exhale, hold even longer. 

He breathes, and he keeps his hands clasped behind his back. Not so firm that he might turn his own knuckles lighter; not so clammy that he might be searching for a nonexistent support or excuse or lie. His fingertips do not tremble. His palms do not shake. 

This is something he’s seen and felt at first hand: many races and many beings try to hide their true thoughts and emotions behind carefully constructed facades. This would have been all right, except for the part where those same thoughts and emotions are nearly always betrayed by external signs. 

He wipes his hands discreetly onto his sleeves, and keeps his eyes fixed on the shifting cloudscape outside the viewports. 

Far away, in the sky that slowly shades into darkness and a glimpse of the deeps of space, the stars are starting to become visible. 

The chime repeats itself three more times before fading into silence.

In humans, in human-like beings, these signs of betrayal can include sweat going clammy and cold on the skin. Changes in the pulse, the rate of breathing, the condition of the eyes and of the other sensory organs. Hair can be a dead giveaway, nearly as obvious as a change in body temperature. Fear, agitation, and rage: and it’s possible to learn how to hide the signs of these emotions from facial features and the external limbs.

Hiding these emotions from sensors, however: that’s another set of problems completely, and one that not even Lando can find a way out of. Legal or illegal.

He very, very carefully does not think about the holdout blaster that is concealed in his sleeve, nor about the caches of weapons scattered throughout the mining complex. Cloud City is a place of business and a residence for its workers even when it advertises itself as a playground for those who have the credits to spend, and that’s how he wants the galaxy to think of it -- if the galaxy thinks of it at all. It is a place of industry and, Lando hopes, of peace.

It is not meant to be a place of passivity.

So when the door into the office clicks open, he just barely restrains himself from reaching for the blaster. He doesn’t relax, either, not even when he allows himself a small smile and turns to the being who has entered the room.

The deputy administrator of Cloud City, Milandra, prefers to be addressed using female pronouns. Having lost the use of her legs in childhood, she relies on a power chair built to her exact specifications to get around -- and it is that same chair that allows her to easily meet his eyes. 

“Status,” Lando asks, quietly.

“A little better than we expected -- but also a little worse,” is her equally quiet response. 

He crosses to his own chair. It is as lavishly appointment as the rest of these rooms, but he only sits on the very edge of it, and he neither crosses his legs nor leans onto the armrests. 

He watches her link her fingers into a steeple. Watches her shake her head. “Not really surprising that we would be working among beings who have terrible memories of the Imps, is it: it’s hardly uncommon, even out here.”

“Especially out here,” Lando mutters.

“Yes. That.” He doesn’t miss Milandra’s very quiet sigh. “They’re hiding in and around the engine levels.”

He shakes his head. “Hardly comfortable.”

“I mentioned the subbasements, and they said that they would think about it.”

“Mention it again. As often and as quietly as you can.”

“You did hire me for my discretion,” Milandra says.

“No. I hired you for your competence.” He ventures a smile, and feels it fall off his mouth in just a few moments. “But yes. Also for your incomparable discretion. And I am grateful that I can rely on such.” He very badly needs a drink -- but that is a thought that has been nagging at him ever since the first Imperial ships docked at Cloud City. It still sends a chill down his spine, when he saw the sudden switch from ostensibly civilian freighters to what are unmistakably armed and armored troop transports. All that’s missing are the uniforms.

He turns back to the Bespin clouds, and chews at the inside of his cheek. His mind churns. Food and water and blankets and bedding. Resources moving around the platforms and corridors of this place, and around the hyperspace lanes crisscrossing the galaxy. The increasing demand for Tibanna gas, versus the fact that prices were going up only because of the rising demand from the Empire. 

Messages beamed to him over secured and secret frequencies.

He makes his decision. Keys for one of the private comms. “Lobot.”

“On my way, Baron,” is the stoic reply.

He meets Milandra’s raised eyebrow with one of his own.

As soon as Lobot walks through the doors, Lando murmurs the security pass-phrase: “Luck be a lady tonight.”

“Secure,” Lobot confirms after another minute.

“Good. Now we can talk,” Lando says. “I am faced with a decision, and I need your opinions. Please be as honest as you can. I give you my word that no penalties will be imposed on you for speaking your mind. There will be no repercussions in store. So please, talk to me. Is that clear?”

“Ask,” Milandra says, frowning as she shifts in her chair.

He throws another glance at the liquor cabinet, and by pure force of will makes himself stay away from it. “Darth Vader wishes to, in his own words, view the splendor of Cloud City for himself. And I would normally smile and tell him to come, except for the message that came before his.”

“A message from,” Lobot prompts.

“From Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan.”

“That world is no more,” Milandra says, horrified shadows settling briefly in the lines of her face.

“And yet the survivors remain, with her at their head,” Lando says.

“Her message must involve those survivors,” Lobot says.

Lando nods. “We had the audacity to declare ourselves neutral, thanks to the leverage afforded by our unique operation. So she has asked if it would be possible to extend that neutrality to her people. No more than a handful of Alderaanians remain. She would have them gather, and meet, so they can plan for their very survival. She believes very strongly that the culture and the memory of her homeworld must never be forgotten. As I understand it, she wants to make a beginning of that here.”

“Not possible,” Lobot says, coldly and calmly. “We would no longer be neutral if we were even suspected of harboring them.”

“I agree,” Milandra says. “But I cannot turn my back on those who are now orphaned and dispossessed. If we were to smuggle them in, and say they are not from Alderaan but from other places in the galaxy, we might be able to keep them, at least for a short time.”

“That will still mean that the Princess herself must stay away,” Lobot says.

Lando sighs, quietly. “It would not be a wise decision, anyway, if Vader himself intends to come.”

Shocked silence from Milandra, and then a quickly-suppressed shudder.

“I know that it would be foolishness to refuse him,” he continues, knowing that he sounds grim and resigned. “So I have taken the initiative to invite him here. I have offered him the best of our accommodations, as would befit a guest of his stature.”

“He is no guest.”

“I know.”

“What is this decision that you have to make?” Lobot asks.

“Oh, that one. Well. My question is, how many of us here can remain to see that Cloud City itself remains operational? I am asking about the bare minimum of beings. The rest -- the rest we’ll have to start sending to other safe places. We may no longer count as one.”

“You will have to stay here, yourself,” Lobot says.

Lando nods. “Yes. And you may remain, or not, as you wish.”

“I won’t stay here and pretend to enjoy that -- that one’s company,” Milandra says, vehement. “I can’t. Vader’s no better than a bully; he just happens to be a monstrous one.”

“I’d like you to lead those who must leave,” Lando says.

“All the way to the Rebellion, if need be,” is her response.

“It may come to that.”

“What will you tell the Princess?” Lobot asks.

Lando shakes his head. “What else is there to tell her? She knows she can’t even be in the same sector as Vader. She can’t come here, not if she values her life.”

A different chime sounds in the room.

Lando takes a deep breath, and keys his commlink. “I am still in a private conference.”

“Apologies, Baron, but there is an incoming message,” says one of the comms officers. “The authorization code that was sent together with the message is -- unorthodox.”

He glances at each of the others in turn. Takes another breath. “What code.”

“The code is: Slice a skifter for an idiot.”

Lobot coughs, once. “Only two other beings know that that code even exists.”

“Because I gave it to them myself,” Lando says, and knows that he should be relieved. “Give me the message,” he says to the officer.

A soft beep rises from the console next to the desk, and Lando gestures at it.

Familiar voice, familiar jocularity: “We may or may not have gotten ourselves lost on the Outer Rim. Are we still welcome?”

“Han Solo,” Lobot says.

Lando clenches his hands into fists for just a moment, then makes himself let go. “I don’t know if I should be happy that he’s gotten in touch with me, or angry that he’s gone and done something so bantha-stupid.”

“A feud of some kind?” Milandra asks.

He shakes his head. “No. I’m more worried for the company that he’s keeping nowadays. Company as in the very same woman whom we have just been discussing, who should not be here.” He keys the commlink again. “Comms. I need you to get a message through to the Millennium Falcon, and code it urgent.”

“Standing by, Baron,” is the response. 

“I don’t have any fancy codes or ciphers for you. All I have is this: stay the hell away from this place. Stay away from Cloud City. The Empire is on its way here. Or Vader. Much the same thing, in my book. Stay away, and stay alive. I expect you to turn up again like an Idiot’s Array. Message ends.”

When he looks back at the others, they seem strangely satisfied.

“No more neutrality,” he says, quietly. “And perhaps I have just condemned Cloud City, as well.”

“No, you haven’t,” Lobot says.

“Better to fight on the side of the Rebellion, anyway,” is Milandra’s rejoinder.

Lando throws a look around the room, and shakes his head, and smiles. He crosses the room and empties the liquor cabinet. “Let’s go, and let’s get everyone moving.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second story written as a consequence of participating in the Fandom Trumps Hate charity auctions; I offered Star Wars fic and decided to write for all of my winning bidders. The winning bidder for this particular story was [@rex-luscus](http://rex-luscus.tumblr.com), who asked for a story featuring the one and only Lando Calrissian.
> 
> I am also on tumblr at [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


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